The Uninvited Woman
by of-dreamers-and-detectives
Summary: On his way back to Baker Street after an extended trip into his Mind Palace, Sherlock should be relishing his unexpected reprieve. Instead, he is still reeling from the effects of his overdose, and desperately trying to plan his next move, when help comes in the form of an uninvited guest who makes him confront other matters shoved into the corners of his mind . . .


_This story was written for adler-holmes for the Adlock Valentine's Day Exchange! Sorry the whole thing wasn't ready in time for Valentine's Day; here's the first part, with some accompanying fanart (which you can see soon on my blog, , and which I will later add to this fic), with the next part coming soon! Thank you so much to the-mantelpiece for setting this up, and to the amazing -wittyusernamehere- (aka EquusGirl0621 on ao3!) for taking the time to read, review, and discuss this fic and other ideas!_

"Back to Baker Street."

He said them without thinking, but the words felt strange on his tongue and made his heart skip a beat, although it was barely noticeable given its already erratic rhythm. He had never expected to say them again, had never expected to see his quarters again except within the confines of his mind palace. And even that would have been more of a torment than a comfort in the months to come . . .

He felt dizzy, his mind felt strangely numb, and he knew it wasn't just from the drugs still wreaking havoc in his system. It was just so much, so quickly; he was used to processing large amounts of information in an instant. In fact he was one of the best people in the world at it, but never had that information been so _personal._ So significant to himself and the future of his life. To have spent weeks hardening himself to his upcoming exile, to have finally accepted that he would never see John or Mary or Lestrade or Molly or Mrs. Hudson or . . . okay, yes, even Mycroft . . . again, and then to have that all turned upside down in the best (or was it the worst?) possible way . . .

Except he hadn't accepted it, had he? That was the thing, he hadn't been able to accept his impending banishment on his own. Especially not when he was deprived of any distractions to occupy his mind. Keeping his mind from tearing itself to pieces was hard enough in the lulls between cases in his day-to-day life, let alone . . .

He shook his head aggressively and let out a growl of frustration. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the driver cast him a quick, concerned glance in the mirror, but he pointedly ignored him. _Why_ did it bother him so much that John and Mary had seen him in that state? That Mycroft had? ( _Again?_ he couldn't keep himself from adding). He had smoothed it over for the time being; not for his brother, perhaps, but it seemed that John and Mary had believed him. But what did it matter? That was what frustrated him so much right now, what kept him from reveling in his reprieve . . . Not that he had lied to John and Mary, that part didn't really bother him since it was for their own good (and it was, wasn't it? No need to make them worry any more than necessary, which they certainly would if they didn't believe he had overdosed for valid, albeit outlandish, reasons). Misleading people by slightly . . . embellishing . . . the truth was something he found no reason to avoid doing. But if that embellishment couldn't be supported later, if John and Mary found out that Mycroft had been right all along about knowing what one's mind palace can and cannot do, that Sherlock had been high when he got on the plane and _long_ before Moriarty's shocking public "return," then that would be humiliating. As much as he didn't c _are_ what other people thought . . .

He had to make it appear that he _did_ know his enemy's (new enemy's? old enemy's?) next move as he had told John he already did. It was essential that he cover up the fact that his mental excursion into the Ricoletti case had done nothing more than confirm what he already knew: that Moriarty was dead, that there was no way his arch enemy was ever returning, save for within the darkest confines of his mind palace.

Which made it all the more important that he be able to _think!_ So why was it so damn hard?

Another wave of nausea passed over him, bringing his awareness back around to his bodily state. He noticed his teeth were chattering, despite the sheen of sweat standing out on his skin. He clenched his jaw to silence them. The physical was generally so easy to ignore, and so rarely interfered with his mental processes, but he inexplicably found himself recalling information he had absorbed so long ago, in the boring processes of rehab. He had tried to delete those facts, but for some reason they were coming back now. Extreme vasoconstriction and muscular stimulation leading to hyperthermia. Potential muscle cell death and myoglobinuria. Rises in catecholamine levels causing tachyarrhythmias, increased myocardial oxygen consumption, and elevation of blood pressure; the heart teetering on the brink of cardiac infarction as the coronary arteries constrict. Lowering of the seizure threshold as cerebral autoregulation and blood flow are compromised.

But none of it mattered; he had to t _hink!_

He gasped as a brief convulsion wracked his body, and fought to maintain control as his vision began to fade around the edges. Why did the driver keep it so terribly hot in here? He considered lowering the window but found the effort required to be out of the question. On the edges of his consciousness, he heard the driver repeating his name, asking if everything was okay, and he heard himself mumble something irritably in response, although he couldn't have said for sure what it was. He reached out for something to grasp onto, something to anchor himself to the world spinning around him, and his hand encountered the handle of the car door, the coolness of the metal seeping into the fiery heat of his skin, and _oh god_ he wished the driver would _hurry up_ so he could get back to Baker Street and into the cold and out of this over-heated too-small spinning spinning spinning. . . .

And then:

Stillness. Coolness. The soft touch of snow on his face. What had he just been thinking? He blinked a couple of times to clear his head, looked up at his hand gripped on the frost-covered metal doorknob he had been about to open. The door to his flat. Why hadn't he opened it already? It seemed like he had just been about to –

But suddenly the door opened for him, and the anxious face of Mrs. Hudson appeared before him.

"Sherlock!" she chided, "You should have taken a cab! Did you walk all this way in the cold?"

"I-" he began, and turned around to look at the street behind him. A lone carriage passed by, the driver huddled up against the cold and the encroaching dusk, the horse's breath fogging the bitter air around it. Sherlock struggled to clear his head, found that he could not immediately remember _how_ he had gotten here, but it hardly mattered . . .

"Well, in any case, come on in out of the cold, dear; you've got a client! A pretty little thing," Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows and suppressed a smile. "I told her to just go upstairs and wait; I assumed you wouldn't be out long in this weather. Shall I make her some tea?"

"A client?" Sherlock stuttered, turning back towards her and blinking hard a couple of times to clear his head.

"Yes, Sherlock, a client! Are you alright? You seem a bit out of sorts. Are you sure you're not coming down with something? Mrs. Turner next door has had a fever all week, been bundled up in bed the poor thing, wouldn't want you to –"

"Yes yes, I'm fine," Sherlock snapped, shouldering past her towards the stairway. Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue and shook her head disapprovingly, muttering something or other about "boys these days" or "manners" or some other inane nonsense that Sherlock didn't quite pick up on as he took the stairs two at a time towards his quarters, all other thoughts forgotten once he had a new case to embark on.

Sherlock slowed his approach upon reaching the top step. He always liked to take a moment to collect a little information about his new clients before meeting them; it always helped to have the upper hand. In any case in which a young woman sought his services alone, without the accompaniment of a husband or father or other male relation, it was generally because the case was of a private nature, and involved the precise male relation in absence. It was highly unusual for a young woman to make a journey alone at this time of evening, and furthermore in this weather, so that implied her concerns were of an urgent nature. She would therefore be highly distressed, and he could expect a variety of unpleasant outcomes related to that factor, from the only slightly annoying wringing of gloved fingers to the highly irritating and uncomfortable feminine wailing and tears.

Upon entering his flat, however, all previous assumptions abruptly dropped away.

His sitting room was empty, and his bedroom door, which he consistently closed upon leaving his quarters, was open. What type of client would enter his _bedroom_ in his absence?

The thought sent a shock wave through his brain; an image flashed behind his eyelids. But before he had a chance to evaluate either one any further, he caught the scent of a familiar perfume wafting through the air, and two words burst into his mind like a thunderclap:

 _The Woman._


End file.
